Stealth doesn’t stray from Rob Cohen’s tried-and-true aggro blueprint for making movies.
John Dahl’s dust-collecting WWII chronicle The Great Raid finally arrives with the dull thud of a bomb that fails to detonate on impact.
The film succumbs to the dull, sloppy obviousness it had previously worked so hard to skirt.
Richard Linklater’s remake remains largely faithful to the original film’s spirit of crude rebelliousness.
Unknown White Male gradually transforms into a first-person documentary portrait not of rediscovery but of wholesale reinvention.
Also add the film to that ever-growing list of films only Earl Dittman likes.
There’s something to be said for the sight of Vince Vaughn’s package being rubbed, in extreme close-up, through his dinner slacks.
The film ultimately chooses to embrace, rather than transcend via zany bawdiness, the schmaltzy genre within which it’s operating.
In Terry Gilliam’s phantasmagoric cosmos, the earthly and the imaginary coexist in semi-harmony.
Tim Burton’s film is akin to a disappointingly tame acid trip.
Ice Princess once again proves that Disney probably loves your tween more than you do.
If you’re a keeper and not a renter, you’ll want to go for the two-disc DVD of the film.
Ambition is both Pretty Persuasion’s finest and weakest attribute.
Jennifer Connelly soulfully pinpoints the fearful protectiveness of a mother confronting the possible loss of her offspring.
The end result is a wasted opportunity to breathe fresh life into the Marvel universe’s long-stodgy elder statesmen.
The image is gorgeous, the sound is astonishing, and the supplemental materials are solid.
The film is an atmospheric investigation into the surreal, artistically inspirational mixture of religiosity and criminality that hangs like a pall over the rural communities of the country’s lower half.
November is a third-rate whodunit which clumsily employs the gimmicky Sixth Sense template for its tale of trauma-induced denial.
The film’s formulaic rags-to-roundball glory story tellingly parallels Martin Lawrence’s deteriorating career.
Hans Petter Moland’s humanistic story about xenophobia, man’s persevering spirit, and life’s bitter ironies only stumbles during its final act.